


Monster

by intotheruins



Category: Dexter (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Bloodplay, Demon Dean, Dexter's POV, Knifeplay, M/M, POV First Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-06 21:00:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8769154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intotheruins/pseuds/intotheruins
Summary: There's a new monster in Miami, and his name is Dean Winchester.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mayalaen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mayalaen/gifts).



> Merry Christmas, Maya! <3 This doesn't really follow the prompt, I'm pretty sure Dexter stole the control from me, but hopefully you'll still like it!
> 
> I never write in 1st POV for a fic (although I use it quite frequently in my original fiction) but this one DEMANDED to be 1st person, probably because Dexter is such a 1st person show. I think it came out okay, and hopefully peeps will give it a shot :D.

Tonight's the night.

It's been months since my last kill. After Lumen, it just seemed so... pointless. But as it always does, the need returned, the Dark Passenger scratching until the walls came down and it all began again.

There's a new monster in Miami, and his name is Dean Winchester. Which is interesting because he's supposed to be dead. He and his brother Sam were big names on the FBI's Most Wanted a few years ago, until they were killed in a freak accident in Colorado. Still, it doesn't really surprise me to find out he's alive. From what I read, the brothers were definitely smart enough to fake their deaths.

What does surprise me is that Sam isn't with him, but I'm grateful for it. Taking both of them down at the same time would be... unwise.

I didn't realize who he was, at first. Everyone was called in on a bar brawl turned multiple-homicide, and more than one bystander managed to get pictures on their phones before the actual murder took place. I heard more times than necessary just how badly he'd been singing. Honestly, why do people feel the need to tell each other these things?

Okay, that's not the point. The point is, when I looked at the photos it was clearly Winchester. Older, a little more worn, but there was no doubt in my mind.

One of the men he killed was kind enough to pull out a fistful of hair for me, so besides the room full of witness I have some nice, tidy DNA to tie him to the crimes. I didn't waste any time making up the kill room, in a mausoleum in Tanner Cemetery. The place is too cheap to even hire a night guard. Besides, it's fitting considering one of the many crimes on the Winchester's list is grave robbing.

After that, it was just a matter of getting him to the room. It turned out to be surprisingly easy—Winchester liked to drink. A lot. I caught him outside a bar on the other side of town.

And now he's here, wrapped up and ready. I break the smelling salts and watch as his eyes flutter open.

Then I wait for it. The shock, the protests, the pleas—maybe even threats. I'm not sure which road he'll take, but it's always interesting to watch how people react to their fate.

Only he doesn't do any of it. He frowns, tries to lift his head only to be stopped by the plastic. I watch him wriggle a bit, well defined muscles tensing as they test their bonds.

Then green eyes find me, assess me like he's the one holding the knife. He _smirks._

“Oh, bad move,” Winchester says, chuckling low in his throat.

Huh. This one's fun.

I lift the blade and rest the tip against his throat. “I don't think you understand your situation.”

He snorts. Rolls his eyes. “Far as I can tell you're human, so I'm pretty sure you're the one who doesn't understand your situation.”

“What makes you think I'm human?”

Winchester shuts his eyes. For a second I think maybe he's accepted his fate.

But then he says, “This is what,” and opens his eyes.

They're solid black. I gasp, take a quick step back.

Fear. It's always so tantalizing to feel a real emotion, no matter how base.

Winchester smirks again, and with one quick blink his eyes have returned to rich green. He doesn't say another word. He just tenses, every muscle straining against the plastic wrap. His left arm bursts free and I just stand there, my fingers tight around the hilt of my knife as I watch him tear aside the remaining plastic and roll to his feet, unashamed of his nakedness.

It's... beautiful.

He's beautiful.

Interesting.

“You picked the wrong guy to mess with,” he says. Or more like growls—doesn't that hurt his throat?

What the hell am I doing? I tighten my grip on the knife, but otherwise I don't move. I'm captivated by the fluid way he stalks forward, the way his eyes flash that incredible black as he gets in close. He takes the knife right out of my hand and I don't even try to stop him.

For only the second time in my life, my heart is racing. Is this how real people feel?

He steps forward, backs me into the wall, and sets the knife against my throat. I can't get enough air. I drag in a huge gulp and the tip of the blade digs into my skin—it parts to allow the blade inside, just enough to release a single drop of blood.

My eyes slip closed, my heart hammers against my chest. No, real people don't feel like this. A real person would be terrified right now, and this is... something else.

I open my eyes. I have to, have to see this monster's face when he sinks the blade home. If he does. Either way, I'm strangely okay with it. I've never felt quite this alive, and whether I keep this moment or die in it, it's still a gift.

Winchester's eyes are black again. He's holding the blade unnaturally still. I can see myself in the reflection of his gaze—eyes wide, lips parted, and I'm... smiling.

Huh. I almost lift my hand, just to check.

“How are you not a demon?” Winchester murmurs, and now he's smiling, too.

“Is that what you are?” I ask. He's definitely not human, and not just in the sense that I'm not human.

“Yeah.” Winchester leans in, careful to keep the blade exactly where it is. “You'd make a great one.”

He lowers the blade. I gasp in a desperate breath, and watch the sharp point trail down my chest. He stops right over my pounding heart, head tilted, black eyes narrow as he considers.

“Fuck it,” he whispers.

The blade tears downwards. I tense, prepared for my flesh to part, to bleed... only it's just my shirt that parts instead, from mid-chest to the hem. Winchester's eyes melt back to green, but only just—his pupils are so blown he may as well still be in his... demonic form?

Wow, did I just think that?

Winchester sets the knife against my cheek. Just rests it there, not so much a threat as it is... absent minded. He lays his other hand on my stomach, slides it up until my shirt parts and his palm is resting over my heart. My chest is heaving. I can't get enough air. He leans in closer, presses me hard into the wall. The knife slides over my cheek—it hurts, but it feels amazing, the way the skin just eases open to let the blood flow. Same spot I always cut my victims.

“Please,” I hear myself gasp. Is that my voice? It sounds so... desperate.

Something strange passes over my monster's face. His jaw clenches, his eyes widen. For a brief moment he looks human. Scared.

“You sure you're not a demon?” He says again, softly.

“No.” Maybe I am. Maybe that's what's wrong with me. I'm tempted to snatch the knife back, check my gaze in its reflection.

Winchester doesn't say another word. He just slashes down, cutting through my chin and down over my chest. The shirt falls fully open—the knifepoint rests against my collar bone. He slides a thigh between my legs, and it's only then that I realize I'm hard.

I _feel—_ fear, excitement, arousal. I don't want it to stop. 

“Keep going,” I murmur.

Winchester cocks one eyebrow. “You don't know what you're asking,” he says. His eyes flash black again. He licks his lips, presses the tip of the knife in until blood wells around it.

“I don't care.”

He hesitates... and then the smirk is back. The blade presses in. He drags it down slow, one straight steady line right down towards my stomach. He licks the blood from my chest and shoves his thigh in hard—I bite back a cry, my hips bucking against him as I shudder through orgasm.

I don't realize my eyes have rolled back until I feel him licking at the blood on my cheek. It takes a moment to get myself under control enough to look, to watch him lean back just enough to meet my eyes. He grins, and sets the knife against my shoulder.

“My turn,” he growls, and pushes down with the knife.

I let it cut into me a little before I drop to my knees.

~

END

 


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